The Hunter's Moon
by bereshit001
Summary: As a young and freshly crowned king, Arthur must deal with many unforeseen difficulties. A collection of post-movie short stories.


_A/N_ : 'King Arthur: Legend of the Sword' bombed at the box office and critics gave it a bad review – but to hell with that! I've already seen this movie four times in cinema and I love it! The music is awesome, the style is energetic, entertaining and uniquely Guy Ritchie's. The characters are interesting, the film's spin on the Arthurian Legend is refreshing and the world it builds and atmosphere it creates are so imaginative my mind was blown away! Its detailedness and narrative is so book-like I was surprised to find out that it's not an adaptation. On the bright side, this means we, fanfiction writers can create any novelization. :)

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"I understand that there's been a change in the leadership of this nation. I'm confident that you'll still honor the agreement made by your predecessor and my king. We expect to leave here with ten thousand young man as agreed."

"Yeah, I don't think so, mate."

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 **The Hunter's Moon**

Chapter 1

The sea was swarming with Vikings. Hundreds of dragon-headed longboats were rowed towards the wide, sandy coast with sails taken in and weapons raised high. A few of them had already reached shore – the Norse warriors jumped out of the ships, waded through the shallow water and began to form their shield-wall. They were ready to climb the steep that led to the top of the lofty cliff that enclosed the bay.

Arthur dismounted his horse and walked to the edge of the grassy hill. His friends and knights followed him, standing next to their king. They all watched the gathering army below with dark and worried expressions. They arrived in time and had the higher ground. Still, it would not be enough.

Greybeard had told them the truth – their king had not been happy about Arthur withdrawing from their deal with Vortigern. The Norsemen were aggressive and battle-happy people; they needed the steady supply of young boys to raise and train them as their own warriors or slaves. No one was stupid enough to enrage these people famous for going into battle eagerly and fearlessly. No one of course, but Arthur, who bravely – or insanely, depending who you ask – had defied them, on his first day as king nonetheless.

Three thousand Viking ships controlled the North Sea around the island unchallenged for decades. Now half of them were ordered to invade the kingdom of the young, foolish king. They were outnumbering his men, ten to one.

Arthur's warband was waiting behind their new king, five thousand fine soldiers and ex-rebels. Vortigern had commanded a hundred thousand men – Arthur could scarcely scrape together one twentieth of that. One of his first act as king had been to dismantle the Blacklegs and he was still in the process of assembling his own loyal troops. It went painfully slow.

Two months had passed since he took up the crown and so far he couldn't even get all the twelve barons into line. Some of them saw his uncle's death as a chance to break their lands free of the kingdom, and others simply looked down on him. He may have been a Pendragon by blood but he had been raised by courtesans. In the eyes of the barons, that had left a stain. Never mind that brothels existed solemnly because aristocratic assholes were too horny yet too proud to fuck their own stick-in-the-mud wives.

Arthur had a mind to leave all the noble families to their own devices, however without their support the kingdom could not stand unified against invading forces. A lesson he was beginning to learn.

Above them sullen clouds covered the sky, their thick greyness hiding the early-winter sun, whose dimly filtered light colored the landscape in an eerie hue.

Arthur looked around. Bedivere, William, Tristan, Percival, George and Caradoc eyed him expectantly, their hands resting on their weapons. Whatever Arthur's strategy was, they were ready to follow. Further back, at the slight slope of the hill, Blue stood with the reins of the horses in his small fist. Back Lack's son was smart, loyal and determined to become the squire of the king. Behind him the five thousand men wearing the gold-yellow uniform of the House of Pendragon were also ready to lay down their lives for England.

Ahead of them slowly approaching Viking ships dominated the sea as far as the eye could see. The disembarked groups on the shore began to chant and pound their wooden shields with their axes. Their battle cries were terrifyingly ardent.

The weather was calm and still, with the promise of storm hanging in the air.

Arthur drew Excalibur and glanced at his friends one last time. As one they all pulled out their weapons and nodded to him as an acknowledgement. Everybody knew this fight would probably be their last. What awaited them at the bay was not a battle but a bloodbath.

Arthur fixed his shoulders. Well, he had been experimenting, learning and practicing for occasions just like this. It was time to put theory into test. He took a deep breath and grabbed his sword with both hands.

The wind picked up.

Sir William, proud owner of the 'Goosefat Bill' nickname, a spy, fighter, diplomat and champion escapee, watched with trepidation as Arthur's eyes gained a blue glow. The hair on the back of the noble's neck stood on ends as Excalibur flared up with the same azure aura, and the air around his friend became heavy and heated.

All at once the horses went wild. They reared and danced around so terrified that Blue had to let go of their reins if he wouldn't want to be trampled; then he ran after the escaping beasts, shouting frightfully.

A low and deep sound rumbled through the overcast sky and the long, fat grass on the hill began to ripple around Arthur. The rising breeze ruffled Bill's hair, lifted and tugged on the knights' clothes and picked up the dirt from the ground, shoving it into the eyes of the restless soldiers.

The young king tightened his grip around the hilt and the gust of wind turned towards the bay. A whirlwind of sand blinded the armed Vikings; the longboats dragged halfway to the land tilted as the sea violently splashed against them. The rowers stopped on the ships near the coast; the invaders watched uneasily as the wind turned the waves around, moving from the shore to the sea.

The sky darkened and the wind got stronger and stronger by the second. Although there was no rain, nor lightning, what brewed around them was a storm nonetheless – a storm sired by magic. And it was Arthur who stood at its center.

Out on the open sea the Viking ships became uncontrollable; they tossed and tumbled on the wild water like wooden toys in a bathtub. The frothy waves lashed high, towering over the longboats, rushing against the rocks on the beach, spraying salty water into the air.

On the cliff Bill and the others had to hold against the raging storm. Even with legs firmly planted to the ground, a hand shielding their eyes and leaning with their whole bodyweight against the gale the knights could still hardly stand straight. Bill didn't even notice when the wind pushed him back a few steps, placing him behind Arthur's wide frame. He watched aghast as the king, now standing alone on the tip of the cliff, with one hand lifted Excalibur above his head, his jaw flexing wide as he roared as wildly and viciously as the tempest howled around them.

Below, the Viking ships finally lost the battle with the elements. Masts broke apart with thundering cracks, sails got torn to shreds and hulls crashed against the rocky headlands. One by one all the longboats capsized and perished; thousands of Vikings went under the raging sea never to surface again. Bill was sure there was screaming going on but the Norsemen's voices were lost in the roaring wind.

The devastation was complete. No ship could survive the force of Arthur Pendragon.

Then, as quickly as it built up, the storm ended. The surging sea swallowed the last of the longboats, then the huge waves slowly lost their ferocity. The wind quieted down until it became only a whisper between the gently rocking blades of grass. Rays of sunlight split apart the dark blanket of storm clouds, reflecting on wet sand and the smooth surface of the water with a brilliant, sparkling luster.

In the sudden stillness Arthur's panting was like a howling itself. The young king let his hand drop to his side, the sword nearly falling out of his tired grip. His grey eyes no longer reflected the light with an otherworldly bluish glint; his hair was tasseled, his skin gleaming with sweat. He looked like someone who fought hand-to-hand with the whole Viking army.

Arthur knew the magic he used came solely from the sword while he himself was only the conductor, but still, forcing his will upon the sheer power Excalibur held was no small feat. He knew that giving himself over the power thoroughly exhausted his body as well as his mind. So, he had practiced and practiced and got knocked out by the magic more times than he had succeeded, but gradually he had tested and learnt what the sword could do…

On the horizon the remaining Viking longboats, too far away to get caught up in the magical storm, turned around hastily and sailed away – no doubt to return to Denmark to tell their failures to their king.

"Let the surviving ships run," Arthur ordered between two heaves of breath. "Gather up the rest from the coast and anybody who makes it out of the water alive." He sheathed the sword and turned around. "There's no need to kill more."

The knights watched dumb-stricken as their king slowly walked to the stunned, disheveled and jaw-dropped Blue, took the rein out of his hand and saddled his horse. When nobody moved or uttered a sound, he finally looked up and noticed the stupefied and astonished stares directed at him.

"Come on lads, chop-chop!" he smirked, "The coast won't clean itself." Then he kicked his horse and rode away. The wall of soldiers hastily opened up before him, making a straight, wide line towards their camp. Some of the older soldiers even dropped to his knees as Arthur galloped past them.

Deadly silence followed him.

"Did–" Tristan had to swallow and try again. "Could Uther do this?"

"I've never seen anything like this," Bill shook his head, still wide-eyed.

"My father told me stories about Uther," Caradoc muttered with awe and more than a hint of fear in his voice, "but even his wildest tales were nowhere near this…" he couldn't find the proper term to finish his sentence with.

"Uther possessed the sword only for a short time." Bedivere's tone was speculative, his expression dark as he followed Arthur with his gaze. "The Lady of the Lake gave it to him at the end of the war with Mordred, only weeks before the siege of Camelot. And his death."

"Basically, you sayin'" Percival interjected, "that we've no idea what the sword is capable of?"

George only hummed and nodded thoughtfully.

"Seems so," Bill mused. Even now he couldn't look away from the destruction their king unleashed. The bay was littered with splinted wood and tattered sails. Pieces of floating ship-hulls and bloated dead bodies filled the water. Soon the undercurrent would carry all of them further into the sea or the tide would wash them ashore. The remaining Vikings on the coastline either threw away their weapons and shouted gibberish up to them in a frightful voice or dove into the sea, trying to help their comrades. Only fifty or so of them survived and every last one of them looked hysterical.

Bill looked at them and just couldn't shake the icy fingers that crawled down his spine into his guts. He wondered what kind of story would the Norsemen share with the world. What kind of a legend did Arthur start here?

A heroic or a dreadful one?

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 _A/N_ : I have many theories and ideas for further chapters, but unfortunately I have little time to write.


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